Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

Went to the Zoo.
I said to Him –
Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of
you.

Mrs Icarusby Carol Ann Duffy

I’m not the first or the last
to stand on a hillock,
watching the man she married
prove to the world
he’s a total, utter, absolute, Grade A pillock.

Salomeby Carol Ann Duffy

I'd done it before
(and doubtless I'll do it again,
sooner or later)
woke up with a head on the pillow beside me - whose? -
what did it matter?
Good-looking of course, dark hair, rather matted;
the reddish beard several shades lighter;
with very deep lines around the eyes,
from pain, I'd guess, maybe laughter;
and a beautiful crimson mouth that obviously knew
how to flatter...
which I kissed...
Colder than pewter.
Strange. What was his name? Peter?

Simon? Andrew? John? I knew I'd feel better
for tea, dry toast, no butter,
so rang for the maid.
And, indeed, her innocent clatter
of cups and plates,
her clearing of clutter,
her regional patter,
were just what I needed -
hungover and wrecked as I was from a night on the batter.
Never again! I needed to clean up my act,
get fitter,
cut out the booze and the fags and the sex.
Yes. And as for the latter,
it was time to turf out the blighter,
the beater or biter,
who'd come like a lamb to the slaughter
to Salome's bed.
In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets,
and there, like I said - and ain't life a ***** -
was his head on a platter.

Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

Ballade of the Poverties
Adrienne Rich

There's the poverty of the cockroach kingdom and the rusted toilet bowl
The poverty of to steal food for the first time
The poverty of to mouth a penis for a paycheck
The poverty of sweet charity ladling
Soup for the poor who must always be there for that
There’s the poverty of theory poverty of the swollen belly shamed
Poverty of the diploma mill the ballot that goes nowhere
Princes of predation let me tell you
There are poverties and there are poverties

There’s the poverty of cheap luggage bursted open at immigration
The poverty of the turned head, the averted eyes
The poverty of bored sex of tormented sex
The poverty of the bounced check the poverty of the dumpster dive
The poverty of the pawned horn the poverty of the smashed reading glasses
The poverty pushing the sheeted gurney the poverty cleaning up the puke
The poverty of the pavement artist the poverty passed-out on pavement
Princes of finance you who have not lain there
There are poverties and there are poverties

There is the poverty of hand-to-mouth and door-to-door
And the poverty of stories patched-up to sell there
There’s the poverty of the child thumbing the Interstate
And the poverty of the bride enlisting for war
There’s the poverty of prescriptions who can afford
And the poverty of how would you ever end it
There is the poverty of stones fisted in pocket
And the poverty of the village bulldozed to rubble
Princes of weaponry who have not ever tasted war
There are poverties and there are poverties

There’s the poverty of wages wired for the funeral you
Can’t get to the poverty of the salary cut
There’s the poverty of human labor offered silently on the curb
The poverty of the no-contact prison visit
There’s the poverty of yard sale scrapings spread
And rejected the poverty of eviction, wedding bed out on street
Prince let me tell you who will never learn through words
There are poverties and there are poverties

You who travel by private jet like a housefly
Buzzing with the other flies of plundered poverties
Princes and courtiers who will never learn through words
Here’s a mirror you can look into: take it: it’s yours.

Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

"We may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face of seemingly out-of-control technological power and seemingly limitless corporate greed, yet it has always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of kinship where all is represented as separation."

Adrienne Rich

Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.

I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

Dylan Thomas rocks. I have always loved Fern Hill for some reason even though I am a total urbanite. The voice surprised me ... I can dimly recall a reading of A Child's Christmas and have a recollection of it being much more Welsh.

Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

Originally Posted by Sam Lord

Dylan Thomas rocks. I have always loved Fern Hill for some reason even though I am a total urbanite. The voice surprised me ... I can dimly recall a reading of A Child's Christmas and have a recollection of it being much more Welsh.

His posh English voice, for the readings. I wonder if he'd listened to those strange recordings of Yeats ? Although he was a better reader than Yeats.

My flesh feels weary and I've read every book.Escape! Fly away! The gulls seem drunk between distant sea spray and sky.Nothing: not those ancient gardens mirrored in eyes, Can hold back my heart, immersed in the sea.

Not these nights: nor the lonely glow of the lamp, On my untouched paper, defended by whiteness Nor the young woman, her child at her breast.I'm off! The steamer, masts swaying, lifts anchor for wild, exotic lands.

Bored and jaded, deserted by cruel hope, I believe still in the final farewell of the handkerchiefMaybe the ship's masts will summon up storms...Tossed onto lost wrecks, without masts, without masts or fertile islands...But, oh! my heart! hear the sound of the sailors' songs..!